On the ride back to the precinct, Marco couldn't stop glancing at Edward and Otis in the rearview mirror. Both of them looked increasingly uncomfortable under his gaze, exchanging confused looks but saying nothing.
"Drop me off here," he said as they approached his apartment building.
Darnell pulled the patrol car to the curb. "You good, man? You've been quiet."
"Just tired."
"Yeah, well. Get some sleep. Something tells me we're not gonna get much of it for a while."
Marco climbed out, watched the car disappear into traffic, then stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment. He should go upstairs, shower, and then sleep.
Instead, he climbed onto the fire escape.
The metal stairs creaked under his weight as he made his way up to the third-floor landing. He sat down with his back against the brick wall, pulled out his phone, and opened the system interface.
He focused on the meteor card first, the one that had given him Precision Strike: Hammer of God. Maybe he'd get lucky again.
The card flared bright, and the meteor pattern began to spin. Faster and faster, until the individual stars blurred into rings of light. He watched, waiting for it to resolve into something useful.
The spinning slowed.
Then stuttered.
The light flickered, dimming and brightening erratically like a bulb on a dying circuit.
"Oh, come on..."
After what felt like an eternity, the card finally stabilized. Text appeared in his vision:
[Even Match:
Maintain an even match with any enemy for a short period.
Cooldown: 360 hours
When user is female: 50% chance to steal random enemy attribute
When user is male: SKILL CANNOT ACTIVATE. YOU HAVE WASTED ONE SKILL POINT.
This skill cannot be upgraded.
Trial version only.]
Marco stared at the notification for a long time.
Then he said, "What the fuck."
The system had gender-locked skills. He'd just burned a skill point on something completely useless.
"Who the hell designed this thing?"
He took a deep breath, and closed the meteor card interface. He wasn't risking another point on that card. Instead, he focused on the stick-figure card. At least that one was straightforward. He added a point. The card pulsed once, showing new text:
[Skill Level: 2]
[Required Points: 1/2]
[*******************]
One more point to level it up. Fine. He dumped his remaining skill point into it.
[Skill Level: 2]
[Required Points: 2/2]
[Strong and Sturdy:
Your physical fitness has reached Muscular Build]
[Progress Missions:
Push-ups: 0/10,000
Running: 0/1,000 km
Burpees: 0/10,000
Sit-ups: 0/10,000]
[Complete all missions to increase skill level. Your musculoskeletal system has been enhanced. You can now walk, run, and jump. You will not experience hair loss from training.]
Marco read the notification twice, then closed the interface and rubbed his eyes. The hair loss guarantee was mildly amusing. He sat there on the fire escape for a while longer, staring out at Gotham's skyline. The city looked almost peaceful from up here.
It was a lie, of course. Gotham was never peaceful. It was just good at pretending.
Eventually, the cold drove him inside. He climbed through his window, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto his bed fully clothed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
---
The phone woke him what felt like ten minutes later but was actually three hours.
"Yeah," Marco mumbled into the receiver, not bothering to check the caller ID.
"Marco, you awake?"
Gordon. Of course.
"What do you think? If I wasn't awake, how would I be answering the phone?" Marco rubbed his eyes, squinting at the alarm clock. 6:47 AM. "This better be important."
"I got a tip. Black Mask is going to hit Wayne Tower."
Marco was suddenly, completely awake.
"Shit." He threw off the covers and sat up, clamping the phone between his shoulder and ear while he searched for pants. "How many men does he have? Three hundred? Four?"
"I'd say over four hundred. A lot of street muscle's been joining up with him. The promise of cash is a hell of a recruitment tool." Gordon's voice sounded strained, like he'd been up all night. Which he probably had. "Mayor O'Brien won't let us report it or request backup from the state police. He doesn't want outsiders knowing how bad things have gotten."
"Does he really think he can keep a lid on this?"
Marco found his pants under the chair and pulled them on one-handed. "So what's the plan?"
"Defend it to the death, apparently." Gordon let out a bitter laugh. "O'Brien insists we can't make anything public without solid evidence. He's afraid of causing a panic."
"Well, I guess that makes sense." Marco worked on his socks, hopping on one foot. "Look on the bright side, if there's no evidence, maybe Black Mask won't even show up, right?"
Silence on the other end.
Then Gordon said quietly, "Do you believe that yourself?"
"...No. Just trying to make you feel better." Marco grabbed a shirt from the back of his door. "I'm heading to the station now. I'll call you later."
He hung up and finished getting dressed. He'd been through this routine enough times that his body knew what to do even when his brain was still catching up. He locked the apartment door behind him and headed down to the street.
---
The East End precinct was quiet when Marco arrived. The night shift was winding down. A handful of officers with dark circles under their eyes were nursing coffee and filling out paperwork. A couple of drunks slept it off in the holding cells. One of them was snoring loud enough to echo through the bullpen.
Marco went to the break room, found a leftover pizza in the fridge, and stuck a slice in the microwave. While it heated, he poured himself coffee from the pot. He took his pizza and coffee to the far corner of the bullpen and sat down in one of the plastic chairs near the window. The early morning light was just starting to filter through the blinds.
He ate without tasting anything, his gaze drifting across the precinct. Officers shuffling papers. Perps complaining about the shitty food. The coffee machine gurgling. But underneath it, he could feel the tension. Like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap.
He blinked, and suddenly the scene shifted.
The morning light became muzzle flashes. The shuffling papers became bodies hitting the floor. The bulletproof glass at the front desk spider-webbed and shattered. Desks exploded into splinters. File folders and blood filled the air. The officers who'd been joking a second ago were screaming, torn apart by automatic gunfire. The perps in the holding cells were shredded where they stood. The walls ran red.
His hand tightened on his coffee cup. His heart was hammering. He could smell gunpowder and copper...
A hand touched his shoulder.
He jerked violently, his other hand going for his gun on instinct. He spun, nearly knocking over his chair.
Edward stood there, briefcase in hand, looking concerned. "Are you alright?"
The hallucination shattered. The precinct was normal again.
Marco forced himself to breathe. "I'm fine. Just..." He set his coffee down before he dropped it. "Had a nightmare. I haven't fully woken up yet."
Edward adjusted his glasses, his gaze flicking to the sweat beading on Marco's temples. "Your complexion suggests otherwise. Perhaps you should—"
"I'm fine," Marco said again, more firmly. He stood up, brushed past Edward, and grabbed his coffee. "When everyone gets here, we need to brief the whole squad. Gordon called. Black Mask is planning to hit Wayne Tower today."
That got Edward's attention. "Today? That's... that would be catastrophic."
"Yeah. So we need to be ready. If it spills over into our jurisdiction, we're gonna need every body we can get."
"Understood." Edward nodded slowly. "I'll make sure everyone's prepared."
Marco drained his coffee, tossed the cup, and headed toward the stairs. More officers were starting to trickle in now, the day shift arriving for their morning briefing. He needed to talk to Bob before this got any worse.
He found the chief in his office, reading through a stack of reports. When he saw Marco in the doorway, he waved him in.
"Close the door."
Marco did. He cracked the window without asking, letting in a blast of cold air.
"Better?" Bob asked dryly.
"Barely." Marco sat down across from him. "You hear about Wayne Tower?"
"I got the memo from Central an hour ago." Bob stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one. "They're asking for support units. Volunteers only."
"Volunteers." Marco snorted. "Right. Because people are lining up to get shot at by four hundred lunatics."
"That's what I said." Bob took a drag, exhaled smoke toward the open window. "So. You going?"
Marco looked at him. "Are you seriously asking me that?"
"I'm giving you the choice. You don't have to go. Nobody would blame you." Bob leaned back in his chair. "But if Bruce Wayne gets killed.. the East End loses its biggest benefactor. And we're back to being broke."
"So you are asking me to go."
"I'm saying it's your call." Bob's expression didn't change. "But yeah. If you're asking what I think you should do? Go. Keep him alive. Make sure Central doesn't fuck this up worse than it already is."
Marco was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. "Fine. I'll go."
"Good man."
"But there's something else," Marco said. "Money. We're running out again, aren't we?"
Bob grimaced. "How'd you know?"
"Because you always get that look when the accounts are low." Marco rubbed his face. "How bad is it?"
"Bad. We burned through most of the donation. Compensation for injured and dead officers ate up over a hundred grand. Bought the building, paid off old debts, that was another three hundred thousand. First payment to the contractors for renovations? Four hundred thousand. Then there's daily expenses, equipment, the free meals you insisted on..." Bob waved his cigarette. "You spend money like it's water, Marco."
"Those aren't luxuries. That's basic shit that keeps morale up."
"I know. I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying we're broke." Bob took another drag. "So if you're going to Wayne Tower today, maybe try not to die. Because if you do, I'm not gonna have the budget to give you a nice funeral."
Marco laughed. "If I die, I won't give a shit what kind of funeral I get."
"Fair enough." Bob crushed out his cigarette. "Be careful out there. And hey, bring back some good press if you can. Maybe Wayne will throw us another million."
"Yeah. Sure. I'll get right on that."
Marco stood up, headed for the door, then paused. "Chief? If this goes bad..."
"It won't."
"But if it does..."
"Then we deal with it." Bob met his eyes. "Now get out of here. You've got work to do."